


The Dullahan

by FergardStratoavis



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, OC Grimm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27531241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FergardStratoavis/pseuds/FergardStratoavis
Summary: The Creatures of Grimm get stronger and smarter as they age - but sometimes, such ancients remained small. Human-sized, even. The legends circulated since the beginning of time spoke in hushed whispers of these legendary Grimm warriors that could supposedly outgrow their undying hatred of Men and Fauni alike and seek their destruction for pleasure and refinement instead.But didn't that make them all the more dangerous as a result?
Kudos: 3





	The Dullahan

_Beware the Grimm that does not attack immediately._

_Beware the Grimm that uses weapons over claws._

_Beware the Grimm that thinks ahead._

_Beware the Grimm that will stay its hand._

_Beware the Grimm that looks like a man._

_Beware the Grimm that honors your wishes._

_Beware the Grimm that takes its time._

_\----_

The village was a ruin.

There was hardly anyone around these parts. Even most Grimm had already moved on, with only a few pithy Beowulves prowling about looking for scraps they would not dare take away from their bigger brethren. The clanking steps of heavy, half-bone, half-rusted metal boots could herald the arrival of a bandit waste, like the lesser Grimm looking to capitalize on another’s work.

But no. No human wore these boots. The wolfish scavengers passed the silhouette wary glances, recognizing the hateful human shape – but also knowing it was far away from any human. The silhouette was black, with Grimm bone protrusions forming into parts of antique armor, a relic of the past. It had no apparent eyes, standing at two meters of height, but it had no purpose as it walked, merely ambling through the ruins, seemingly taking them in.

One eye, crimson red, with golden “veins” crisscrossed over it, opened ever so slowly on the creature’s left shoulder, seemingly growing out of the black space on its body. There was still human movement in the village. Weak, desperate, most likely a child that escaped all malevolent notice. But what to do with such knowledge? Past a certain threshold, a Grimm’s innate hatred of all that the God of Light made, began to change and take more nuanced shapes. Perhaps it wasn’t even hate these days for the figure insomuch as disgust. Most humans were complacent, living behind their walls, guns, their Dust barriers, their technologies – and they would forfeit their chance at expanding and beating the Grimm from the land for this thin barrier they called “safety”.

The few that didn’t… those were worth killing.

It listened, the eyes slowly opening and closing all over its body as it searched for the exact location of the human presence. A few of the smarter Beowulves picked up on this, their own curiosity piqued. If the elder Grimm stopped like that, then there must have been something else to kill and devour still.

The figure walked around the ruins with slow, deliberately loud steps, the bone plates crunching dry grass and cracked pavement alike. It stopped outside the still smoldering remains of the once-white building, the red rooftop collapsed into the structure. The broken plaque by the door which was miraculously untouched by destruction read “Cassandra Viridian; Bakery”.

The figure stared at the door and then, in what confused the lesser Grimm beginning to crowd near it and the building, knocked at the wood softly. The small, surprised gasp from behind the door was all the wolfish scavengers needed to raise a ruckus in triumphant jubilation, marveling at the ingenuity of its elder brethren – and the feast that was to come.

Once another voice cried out with an unmistakable helpless cadence of a toddler that all hell broke loose and the Beowulves stormed the ruined bakery with the monstrous song of victory on their ghastly lips.

\----

Liz Viridian’s tenth birthday was… less than fortunate.

Their village was raided by bandits. They picked a right moment to attack, and they had no mercy to their name. No house was deemed unimportant, no person was too insignificant to ignore. They killed the defenders – among them her and her little baby brother’s mother – and left the remnants to fend for themselves, right for the Grimm to come and scour the village clean of life.

Liz had no idea if there were any other survivors besides her and her brother. She hid in the ruined bakery, afraid to breathe and thanking the Brothers that her brother remained fast asleep by divine providence. The Grimm had yet to find them, and, perhaps naively, Liz believed the two of them could hold out until a Huntsman came by. She clutched the rolling pin with one hand and held her brother close with the other, measuring every breath of hers with careful caution.

The knock to the door surprised her, but she realized that a second too late. The howling outside awakened her brother who started crying, both tired and scared – which energized the Grimm further. One of them, a lean wolfish monster, dropped in through the collapsed rooftop. Liz felt her blood freeze for a moment as their eyes met. Slowly, she rose from curling up in a corner near the door, clutching the rolling pin. It couldn’t possibly provide any protection against a Beowulf, but she didn’t think much of it, inching towards the door.

One of the Grimm outside knocked at it earlier, so the bakery must have been surrounded. Still she endured, gritting her teeth to keep herself from screaming as the Beowulf made soft, slow steps towards her, not at all rushing to finish off a cornered prey. Running out of options, she busted outside, clutching her brother tightly to herself and trying her damnedest to not let the fear freeze her again. There were other Beowulves outside and then—

And then there was that _thing_.

It stood right at the threshold, likely the one Grimm that knocked at the door. It looked like a human without a head, clad in a mockery of armor made from the bone plates that all Grimm had. Though it looked less bestial and menacing than the Beowulves, Liz had enough clarity of mind to realize that this must have been the pack’s alpha – if only because the Beowulf inside the bakery stopped dead in its tracks as well.

Slowly, one, two, four, seven, twelve eyes opened all over the ancient Grimm, regarding her and her brother with what she could swear was… curiosity? The kind of curiosity she saw in some of her peers holding magnifying glasses over an anthill. So, not that far away from all-encroaching hatred of a Grimm. And yet, it stood there motionlessly, to a point that the Beowulf behind her began growling impatiently.

The Many-Eyed Figure stepped out of the way. Liz blinked. The Beowulves congregated around the bakery blinked. As if on autopilot, the girl stepped out of the bakery, the hand holding the rolling pin chalk white from how hard she clutched it. “D-don’t… don’t think I’ll… you don’t scare me...” She lied. No one seemed to believe the lie, herself included. Her brother was still crying, but there was little she could do to him right now beyond holding him.

The chances that either of them would survive were incredibly slim – but she couldn’t think about it right now. Or at all. She had to do her damnedest to survive – and to keep little Florence with her. Even if the head Grimm was merely giving her an illusion of safety. Even if they were meant to be playthings to the dark creatures.

The Many-Eyed Figure snapped its fingers, then began gesturing. It made no further sound as its eyes slowly closed one after the other. The Beowulves, Liz noticed, seemed tardy to follow orders – so this weird Grimm wasn’t actually their alpha, but rather some obscenely strong loner? And yet, they chose to listen, somehow understanding the figure’s intention as they arranged in the circle around them. Liz would be more baffled if she wasn’t terrified out of her wits.

But she did not run nor cry or scream. They were waiting for further weakness. If she didn’t prove entertaining enough for the Figure, it would just let the Beowulves rip them apart. She could not afford it.

...at least Florence wasn’t crying anymore.

The Figure’s eye on the shoulder opened, looking towards the Beowulf that dropped into the bakery earlier. A simple gesture, a growl of assent, and the wolfish monster skulked into the circle. So… did the Figure expect her to fight the chosen Beowulf one-on-one? It set its eye on Florence, stared for a moment, and then not too gently tugged the chosen wolf over for a brief conversation. Or some kind of Grimm equivalent of thereof.

Really, for all Liz knew, this was a feverish dying dream and the Beowulves were already picking at her entrails by now.

The Figure gave her a look and then pointed towards a small incline in the wall, somewhere where neither of the present Grimm would be able to reach. So this was its reassurance to Liz? That in case she failed to entertain it, at least her baby brother would survive, assuming someone would find him in this smoldering ruin?

...well, better that than nothing. She nodded slowly and turned to walk towards the incline, not daring to show weakness in front of the pack. She placed her little brother in the incline, and thanks the Brothers, he didn’t start crying, merely staring at her the way infants did – innocent reassurance that there was a meaning to life, after all. Liz smiled and kissed the top of his head. “Wait for me, baby brother. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

She returned, steeled with resolve as the chosen Beowulf finally made its way back into the ring, and armed only with a rolling pin. The Figure’s eye opened as it regarded her slowly, then closed again – and so, it clapped its hands. Liz’s bestial opponent howled, its patience long past the breaking point, and charged at her with unrestrained fury.

And so Liz Viridian had no choice but to charge back, screaming her throat out.

\----

The village was a smoldering ruin.

“Did you find any survivors?” Ruby asked, futilely hoping that the others would say yes. This was Shion all over again. There was no soul left; the bandits and the Grimm made sure of that.

Ren and Nora exchanged glances. “...I guess that means no then.” The scythe-wielder looked down dejected. This was the reality of life. Those who chose to live outside the safety of the cities had to contend with the fact that there was no way to know the day nor hour. Villages like these could sometimes mount militia to fend off minor Grimm – but bandits were another thing entirely. “Where’s Jaune?”

“He’s still searching.” Nora sighed. The three of them didn’t say anything for a moment, trying to mull over what to even say. The best they could do was to find the bodies and bury them, but most remains were eaten beyond recognition.

And then they heard Jaune. “Guys! Over here!” This wasn’t the voice of someone in danger, at least, but the three fledgling Huntsmen still charged towards the ruined bakery where the blond was. Jaune was staring at a bloodied body of a girl, still clutching the rolling pin in her hand. The paleness of the dead contrasted vividly with still fresh wounds, unmistakably caused by a Beowulf’s swipe. Her eyes, though long devoid of shine, still remained half-opened as she stared blankly forward… and behind her, in a small incline, cried an infant. “I just found them.” Jaune said, not sure whether to be relieved to find a survivor or solemn to see the sacrifice the girl had to make for its sake.

The Huntsmen extracted the baby from the incline. The best they could do for it was to carry it to another village and hope it would find a new home – and family – there. Yet, it was the mortal cadence of the girl that gave them pause. “A Beowulf wouldn’t just leave a dead body like that.” Ren muttered, gently closing the eyes of the fallen defender. “You’ve seen how it looked anywhere else here.”

“But these _are_ Beowulf’s claws.” Ruby shook her head, watching Jaune awkwardly trying to lull the baby to sleep. “Why would it leave her alone?”

“Maybe some other Grimm chased it away?” Nora suggested. “But then again, wouldn’t they also… eat her?”

“Good question, but I don’t think we have the time to answer it. Let’s bury her quickly and move on.” It felt wrong to take that kind of attitude, but Ren had the right of it: they had to take care for the baby first. Ruby shuddered, unable to shake off the feeling that they were being watched. Slowly, her eyes wandered up – and she froze in her tracks.

At the top of the ruined belltower stood a strange black figure, a few of its eyes opened as it regarded the Huntsmen who came to honor the sacrifice of the little one and save her kin. Its coloration implied a Grimm – but she never saw a truly humanoid one before. It was said such shapes were reserved for the most venerable of darkened creatures.

And one of them was just staring them down from the belltower. It made no effort to attack, move, to taunt them… it just stared at them. Ruby reached for Crescent Rose on first instinct, but then recalled Professor Oobleck’s words about ancient Grimm, and how they waited, with patience to spare. Slowly, her hand went back and she returned the gaze with her own of silver, and gave a terse nod.

The Figure saluted and hopped off the belltower. That was the last time Ruby saw it.

**Author's Note:**

> Eh, might as well. 
> 
> I wrote this some time back, but never published it - something about the idea behind this fic didn't seem right to me. Since 2020 has been an... interesting... year so far, eh, what the hell. Perhaps you will find enjoyment in this as I put The Dullahan in various scenarios across Remnant and time both. Now that I actually posted the damn thing, I might go ahead and add more to it little by little.


End file.
